If you want to get ahead…

… get a hat!

HV Morton set great store by hats and was rarely photographed without one. In his 1951 “In Search of London” he made it clear that he considered hats a barometer of society. He wrote of “modern London” only a few years after he had reported there during the blitz that it was now a place “of jagged ruins and hatless crowds”, an altogether shabbier, graver and sadder place than it had been in previous times. To Morton London now felt “provincial”, a city where “it was no longer possible to distinguish a lord from a navvy, a poor man from a rich one”. A creature of a different age, Morton seemed to feel like a stranger in the city he had once been so familiar with.

A recent event however, somewhere in London, suggests the tide may be turning very slghtly, in a way Morton would have surely approved.

Hats 01

Michael Hagon, a member of the HV Morton Society, has a love of all things London and of HV Morton having acquired his first volume – Morton’s earliest book, “The Heart of London” – some years ago. He also happens to be the manager of one of the most venerated and historical shops in the world, Lock & Co Hatters of St James’s, which dates back to the 17th century.

Recently he wrote to me:

It may be of interest to you to know that we have just made a limited edition eight piece cap made from Escorial wool called “Morton”, the perfect cap to wear when exploring the “Heart of London”. I thought it was time HV was honoured at Locks!

I couldn’t agree more – the hat has a robust and stylish look and is a fitting tribute to one of the best known and best dressed interwar travel writers, Henry Canova Vollam Morton.

With best wishes,

Niall Taylor, Glastonbury, Somerset, England

This post was previously circulated as HVM Society Snippets – No.254

Leave a comment

Filed under Connections, London, Wartime

The Grand Tour of Great Britain

Cover - capture

I recently received news from HV Morton Society member, Paul G, that he had managed to acquire a copy of the Strand Magazine of September 1930 (volume LXXX No 476) from an online seller. I hadn’t come across this edition before so I was delighted to be able to read pages 204 to 211, which featured an article by HV Morton, The Grand Tour of Great Britain.

It is very much of its time of course and not, perhaps, Morton’s finest work – from reading it he obviously feels constrained by the title brief and the limited word-length (he even describes as “exasperating” in the article itself!) but he does manage a helter-skelter summary of his British travel books as the reader is hauled at lightning speed from destination to destination across the country. This idea of summarising highlights from his travels was later developed in a less frenetic way in the 1970’s with the series of illustrated large format books, “HV Morton’s England”, “HV Morton’s Scotland” and so on.

I have included the text of the article below. The cover picture above is, in my humble opinion, quite magnificent! The rest of the pictures are contemporary.

§

The Grand Tour of Great Britain

by

HV Morton

Through his books and articles, Mr, H. V. Morton has been the means of introducing tens of thousands of strangers, and thousands of natives, to the peculiar fascinations of travel in Britain and Ireland. In this article he has summarized for the benefit of the intending tourist his impressions of those places that no intelligent traveller can afford to miss.

I.

ONE of the healthiest tendencies of this age is the interest which men and women in Great Britain are taking in the history, the archaeology, and the scenery of their own land. The cheap motor-car and the excellent road transport services which have developed since the War are largely responsible. Go where you like to-day and you will encounter people who are exploring their own country with an intelligent zest which previous generations reserved for France, Italy, and Switzerland.

I receive letters from every part of the world asking if I will outline the perfect tour of Great Britain. I welcome those from Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the United States, but I rather regret those from people living in this country. It seems to me so strange, that- anyone should deny himself the exquisite pleasure of taking a map and a guide-book and plotting his own route. But the fact remains that thousands of would-be explorers lack the initiative to dive off into England and find their own way, therefore some guidance, it seems, is essential.

Your perfect tour of Great Britain begins at home in an arm-chair with a book like G. M. Trevelyan’s “ History of England.” You cannot appreciate England until yon have brushed up your history. You should follow this with a popular book on geology.

The structure of the earth has determined the events of history; it has also affected the appearance of the landscape. If everyone who travels in England studied geology and realized how perfect is the native architecture, and how it varies from formation to formation, public opinion might perhaps be strong enough to prevent reckless and apparently- uneducated architects from planting timber buildings in stone country and stone buildings in timber country. They do even worse things than this !

I consider that a tour of any country should begin from its capital: London, Edinburgh, and Dublin, in the present instance. I would send my traveller from London to Dover. These white cliffs are the first glimpse of England in history. I would let him find his way, preferably via Rye and Winchelsea, to Winchester. I would like him then to explore the New Forest. He might stay at Brockenhurst or Beaulieu, or, if he does not mind modest accommodation, in that queer, haunted village overlooking Beaulieu River, Bucklers Hard. There they used to build wooden warships. The slipways are rotting and the wide village street ends as if cut with a knife. Only a few cottagers now live in a place which two centuries ago attempted to challenge the supremacy of Portsmouth.

The motorist should run down to Christchurch and Bournemouth from the New Forest and then go north to Salisbury. Every cathedral in England has one supreme feature. Salisbury’s pride is its spire. Stonehenge is only a few miles away. It is well worth while to get up in the early dawn to see Stonehenge.

IMG_6836 modA Portland Quarry – now abandoned

Now the road goes west into Dorset. Weymouth is still a Georgian watering place. The traveller will say—as everyone says in sunny weather—that the bay is rather like that of Naples. But no one should go to Weymouth and leave the Isle of Portland unvisited. This great stone quarry from which all Wren’s City churches were hewn has provided material for many of the greatest buildings in the world. It is fascinating to wander beside the sea in those colossal excavations from which St. Paul’s Cathedral was taken. You will discover two pillars overgrown with brambles which for some reason or other never found their way to Ludgate Hill. And in another quarry they will show you a long trough. The great stone hewn from this quarry is now the Cenotaph.

The traveller will now take the road into the glorious county of Devon. He will admire Torquay with its red soil and go on to Plymouth. Plymouth, especially its fish market and the Barbican, will repay any amount of loitering; and at dusk there is only one place to go—the finest promenade in Europe, Plymouth Hoe.

The change from Devon into Cornwall is one of the remarkable experiences in a country which is full of quick changes in atmosphere. Cornwall is Celtic. It looks like it and sounds like it. Round Falmouth and St. Mawes are some of the most glorious villages in the country. Land’s End is a fascinating place. I would like my traveller to see it on a day of sea mist when the minute-gun is booming in the greyness and the waves are breaking in white foam over the sharp, black rocks. The run up the west coast of Cornwall is enchanting. Everyone should see Tintagel. It is one of the most romantic names on the map of England, and if you climb up to Arthur’s Castle at evening by yourself and hear no sound but sheep cropping grass on the queerly-shaped mounds you will not have travelled in vain.

Once more comes Devon with its varied fields and its cosy villages : Clovelly perched on its cliffs ; Bideford, Barnstaple ; Lynton and Lynmouth (which, like Clovelly, are professional beauties), and then that magnificent few miles beside the sea over the cliffs to Porlock.

Wells snipCathedral Close, Wells

Wells, Bath, and Bristol should be explored. Wells is in many ways one of the most fascinating cathedral cities in the country, Bath is a delightful quiet old lady with, it is difficult to realize, a past, and Bristol is a city in which any man with an eye for history could spend weeks.

Now come those three lovely sisters among English counties : Gloucestershire, Worcestershire, and Herefordshire. Their three cathedrals should be studied. Cheltenham, Stratford-on-Avon, and Coventry are not far off. If you want an amusing experience, go to Droitwich and try to establish your balance in that salt brine which turns the human body into cork. You can sit upright in this water and paddle round with your hands.

From Hereford go to Ludlow and Shrewsbury and enjoy the still faintly war-like atmosphere of the Marches. There is something about this district rather like that of the Scottish Border. Then Chester with its wall, and northward to Lancaster and the Lake District. The traveller now finds himself in wild and beautiful country. The softness of Devon and Somerset seems like a dream. He becomes conscious that Scotland is over the sky-line.

Now comes the Roman Wall. The eighty miles from Carlisle across England to Newcastle are among the most fascinating and romantic in England. Midway is Chesters, with its Roman Cavalry station. You can see the marks of the chariot wheels on the stones. You should leave the road and follow the great wall of Hadrian for miles. It runs on straight as a sword, the northern boundary of the ancient world.

Newcastle will perhaps not hold the traveller for long, although its Norman castle is interesting and not as well known as it should be. Durham is the city ! The first sight of Durham Cathedral on its hill is one of the unforgettable things in England. This cathedral is almost too good to be true. It is one of the grandest Norman monuments in the world.
Now follows a district which is as full of beauty and interest as the West Country and the green Midlands. It is the splendid county of Yorkshire, a country in itself, a great area which combines every characteristic of English scenery, from the flat plain of York, which reminds you of Herefordshire lowlands, to the high cliffs of Flamborough, which remind you of Cornwall. You come south from Durham to Ripon, where they have been blowing a horn in the market-place at curfew-time since Saxon days, and to Harrogate, the brightest and most cheerful of all spas. To the west you have the glories of Wharfedale and to the east the wildness of the moors leading to pretty Whitby and prosperous Scarborough. You have the superb abbeys of Fountains, Rievaulx, and Jervaulx. But the greatest glory of the North is the City of York. Here a man can idle weeks away and find some new beauty every hour.

The traveller now goes south to Lincoln and to the strange, attractive lowlands of the Wash. Here he might be in Holland. Boston, with its famous “ Stump,” looks as if it had been blown over from the Continent. Then come Peterborough, King’s Lynn, Wells-next-the-Sea, Cley—those wonderful little stranded sea-coast towns from which the sea has retreated—and that beautiful and neglected cathedral city, Norwich. East Anglia is another of those districts in England which the traveller groups in his mind as an area distinct and remarkable as the West Country, the Lakes, the Midlands, and the North. It has a character of its own. It is gentle, flat country full of a quiet charm.

Ely, Cambridge, Colchester, and the Constable Country, and then back to London. That is the brief outline of a tour which should serve very well as a beginning. It should at least enable a traveller to focus the country in his mind. It will certainly whet his appetite and provide him with sufficient hobbies to last more than one lifetime !

II.

Scotland, is an easy country to tour. I like to enter Scotland on the east Border at Carter Bar and move up to Edinburgh through that part of the Lowlands associated for ever with Walter Scott. You have here a group of ruins equivalent to the abbeys of Yorkshire—Jedburgh, Kelso, and Melrose. Near Melrose is Abbotsford.

It is exasperating to be forced to dismiss Edinburgh in a phrase. Here is a city of cities. It sits on its rock like an armoured knight. Old Edinburgh is mediaeval; New Edinburgh is stylishly Georgian. Holyrood is full of memories of Mary Queen of Scots and Prince Charles Edward; the Castle has its roots far deeper in Scotland’s history.

From Edinburgh the traveller should go north to Stirling. The view from the ramparts of Stirling Castle towards the Highlands is one of the supreme views in Great Britain. The route now runs through Dunfermline into the distinct little “ Kingdom ” of-Fife : St. Andrews, which I suppose all golfers-must see, Perth, a fascinating city, and. then a grand good-bye to flat country and a climb up from Blairgowrie over the Devil’s Elbow to the picture-postcard Highlands of Braemar, Balmoral; Ballater, to Aberdeen.

A glorious day’s motoring is that from Aberdeen to Inverness via Elgin and Nairn. Inverness is, in its unique way, as striking as Edinburgh. You are in the capital of Gaelic Scotland and you are reminded of this at every corner. From the castle ramparts at evening you look south-west into a magic land of blue mountains and silver lochs.

I think the journey beside the so-called Caledonian Canal is one of .the finest in Europe. Half-way is Fort Augustus, which was built in the eighteenth century to subdue the last wild men of Europe, the Highlanders, and at the end of the journey is that delightful Highland town Fort William, with Ben Nevis towering up behind it. I would like my traveller to climb the Ben as I did once, on a brilliant autumn day which gradually grew colder and colder until at the top I entered a snowstorm that chilled the very marrow in my bones.

IMG_3866 crop smallBen Nevis

From Fort William to the west is that wonderful country of stern mountain and loch associated with Bonnie Prince Charlie. It leads to the Kyle of Lochalsh and a little boat to Skye. This island is enchanted. It would be a tragedy to visit Scotland and fail to see the Coolins, the, strangest mountains in Europe, or Glen Sligachan, that leads, over miles of barren country to Loch Coruisk, which on a sombre day is like an overture by Wagner.

Returning to the mainland, the route now runs from Fort William through the gloomy pass of Glencoe to Oban and Inveraray. Then come Loch Lomond and Glasgow. Everyone should hire a boat and sail up the Clyde from, say, Greenock. South of Glasgow, balancing the Scott country of the east Border, is that district sacred to Burns—Ayr, Dumfries, and then, over the Border, Carlisle.

This is a tour that may help those who are visiting Scotland for the first time. I could amplify it enormously. I hope that if anyone follows it he will depart from the route as often as possible and make his own discoveries, especially from Inverness and the Kyle of Lochalsh.

III.

Ireland, like Scotland, is easy to see. The high lands are round the coast and the centre of the country is a huge and difficult bog. When the traveller has enjoyed the peculiar charm, of Dublin I suggest that he should work to the south through Tipperary. He should make for Cashel with its supreme ruins. Cormac’s Chapel is the most beautiful Gaelic ruin in the world.

He should then go to Cork, kiss the Blarney Stone, and stay at Glengariff, which is an Irish Riviera. The whole of Kerry is steeped in a melancholy beauty. It is a place of wild, barren hills and incredibly beautiful coast scenery. Killamey is, of course, an inevitable destination. The lakes are magnificent and the country round about is supreme of its kind. A place slightly off the beaten track is Valentia. In good weather it is a journey well worth taking.

But the part of Ireland which fascinates me is Connemara. If the traveller goes north from Killarney through Limerick to Galway he will enter a country as primitive as any in Europe. This is the Gaelic Ireland of literature. This is the Ireland of the Gaelic League, Synge, Yeats, and “ A. E.” When you take the road north from Galway the modern world seems to have come to an end. Barefoot girls in scarlet petticoats sit sideways on diminutive donkeys. There is the reek of peat in the air. Peasants, many of whom speak only the Gaelic, rake up the seaweed and spread it on their potato patches. The fishermen go out to sea in coracles as primitive as those of the ancient Britons. These queer craft—skins stretched over a framework—are to be seen tilted against the white walls of the little cabins.

The traveller who wishes to enjoy this primitive country should stay for some time at Clifden before moving on to the slightly more sophisticated county of Mayo, where at Mallaranny he will encounter one of the incredible views in Great Britain. On certain days the mountains of the west coast are washed in an indescribable colour known as “ Atlantic blue.” You see this colour sometimes on the west coast of Scotland, but never in my experience is it so wonderful as in Mayo. Connected with the mainland by a small bridge is the Isle of Achill, where the dogs still go mad at the sight and sound of a motor-car. Here life is as primitive as in Connemara. Every young person in Achill goes off in the season to pull potatoes in Scotland or the North of England.

The route then takes the traveller northward through Sligo into Donegal. Then come Londonderry and the Ulster border. Ulster might be Scotland. The great sight is, of course, the Giant’s Causeway. Belfast should be visited and compared with Dublin. It is difficult to imagine two cities more widely different from one another. Southward the road takes one over the boundary into the Free State. There is the town of Drogheda and, eventually, Dublin.

This circuit of Ireland is a simple tour. I think anyone who makes it will agree with me that Kerry and Connemara are the districts that remain for ever in the memory. Here you have a mediaeval point of view and a way of life that has not changed in its essentials from, the life of our tribal ancestors.

Originally circulated as HVM Society Snippets – No.238 on 1st June 2019

2 Comments

Filed under Artwork, Literature, Magazine Articles, Travel

Freedom, friendship and whisky…

From John Newland 03 crop

Being half Scottish on his mother’s side may have been the reason HV Morton appeared to particularly enjoyed that country’s national drink. He wrote about it in several of his books, and there was always a common theme to his descriptions. Morton’s attitude to whisky can be summarised in three words: masculine, comradely but, above all else, elemental:

The earth gushed water. Boulders shone like brown glass. Mists hung out of heaven to wrap the world in a grey wetness. Burns spouted. Rivers rose to the bridges. Pools overflowed. New and unexpected streams were born out of a responsive earth. The wind joined in, hurling the rain upwards in sudden mad gusts, so that in the magnificent sincerity of the storm, the very laws of gravity were defied and, in other words, it was made perfectly clear why Scotland invented whisky.” (“In Scotland Again”, 1933).

Whisky, for Morton, is more than a mere drink, it is a force of nature, powerful, chaotic, unpredictable, a way for a man to reconnect with his primeval self, and a way for men to connect with one another. A means perhaps to escape the controlling influences of civillisation.

Thus, in his 1929 “In Search of Scotland” he describes a city-worker who once a year dons the kilt, heads to the highlands and, in the shadow of the mountains, glorifies his ancestors with a shared draft of Talisker which “burns within” to light fires of patriotism and rekindle a love for the auld country, “the hills and the glens and the peat-hags and the great winds and the grey mists” of Scotland. In chapter three of his 1933, “In Scotland Again”, the reader is taken, after hours on a stormy night, to a backroom snug lit only by the glow of an open fire where old soldiers share tales of battle and of campaigns won or lost:

There is one grand virtue in a stormy night. If you are late enough you are at once admitted to that snug little room which exists at the back of every Scottish hotel, where a vast fire is always burning and where a glass of special whisky waits for favoured guests.

“The landlord was a young Scotsman who had fought in Gallipoli. We talked of Chocolate Hill and Suvla Bay and then, of course, we became local, and I was told the legend that Burns wrote ‘Scots wae hae’ in this hotel

Tonight is Burns’ Night, when Scots everywhere celebrate the life and works of one of the greatest poets ever in a feast that echoes down to us from more simple times: Haggis, neeps, tatties and whisky*. Some will do this in great gatherings with much ceremony and speechifying, others such as myself prefer the “snug little room” evoked by Morton. I am proud to say that tonight I will be tucking into a Simon Howie haggis and toasting the great men, Rabbie and Harry, with a glass of Talisker at home in the company of my son.

Freedom, friendship and whisky gang thegither” (Robert Burns)

The whisky had uplifted them… It had given them wings” (HV Morton)

Slàinte mhòr!

Niall Taylor

[* Translation for the uninitiated: Haggis, turnip, potatoes and whisky!]

(Originally circulated as HVM Society Snippets – No.251)

4 Comments

Filed under Literature, Quotations

H.V. Morton Returns from Holiday

by Kenneth Fields

(Originally issued as HVM Society Snippets – No.208, 3 September 2016)

london-k-fields“It is good to be back in London…”

At this time of the year many people in the UK are returning from their summer holidays to face, once more, the daily grind of work. But in this article published in the Daily Express on the 30th August 1928, HVM reveals that he is secretly looking forward to escaping the boredom of his holiday and returning to London:

 

BACK TO LONDON ONCE MORE

————

CONFESSIONS OF A HOLIDAY-MAKER

———–

BOREDOM-ON-SEA

By H. V. MORTON.

Nerveless men with satanic drills are disemboweling the Strand. It takes half an hour to reach Adelphi from Fleet Street. Parts of the Temple have been repainted – window sills flesh-colour and ironwork green. A respectful hush lies over Mayfair. Fewer bald-heads than are usual shine in the club windows of Piccadilly. Bond Street faces the tedium of these days with a spurious vitality. London, in other words, is enjoying her annual fairytale: the belief that she is “empty”.

I am glad to be back in London. My holiday is officially in progress, but I have got the better of it! It is perhaps cowardly to return to work before a holiday is over – or it may be brave! I cannot say.

COUNTRY SCENES

For nearly four weeks I have watched men gathering in the harvest. I have seen the big wains heavy with corn go lumbering over the stubble. I have walked long, magnificent miles to small inns whose tap-room walls still support lithographs of the battle of Omdurman and of General Gordon, in full dress and a fez, astride a prancing charger.

I have talked to farmers, labourers, vicars, caretakers, vergers, milkmaids, cowherds and tramps. I have become quite a good dart player. Lying under hedges and bitten to madness by harvest bugs. I have read with sympathy Mr. Sinclair Lewis on England.

I have observed the simple life of a small holiday encampment, which sits on the edge of the chalk cliffs, like a plateful of French pastry: a mere handful of richly-coloured bungalows widely spread but linked to the realities by grocers’ boys on bicycles. Such places a recent phenomena in England, are children of the motor-car. Men plant their families there all summer and “go down” for the weekend. Every Friday the husbandly ride flows in with triumphant hooting; and the cocktail shaker and the gramophone, mute during the week, salute the air of evening.

SUN BATHS

I have for weeks gone out, in a bath gown, with this community at the precise moment of high tide, and plunged into cold seas and at times not so cold. I have spent days clothed only in a bathing costume. I have felt the sun beating on my body and have observed with pride those tracts of my anatomy which slowly turned the colour of Spanish mahogany. I have played with children. I have collected numbers of those damp, grinning dogs who roam the seashore in a kind of desperate hilarity, ready to adhere with passionate sincerity to any man who will go on flinging sticks into the sea.

And I became bored with the routine. I became as dangerously sad as a rich woman. Perhaps it is not possible to remain content for four weeks. This wide, wet Sahara at low tide after sunset, with a few industrious shrimpers sweeping the edge of the sea, tiny black figures against the sky, became full of an unspeakable melancholy.

I concealed my feelings. No one should know that I wanted to get back to work. But one night I met a man who opened his heart to me: he too, wanted to see London again: he too, wanted to escape from the elaborate discomfort of a holiday. From him I drew courage…

It is good to be back in London. It is distressingly satisfying. How good it looks. There is an excitement in the movement of it and a thrill in the sound of it. It is a city of brown people who returned and pallid people who are going away. Good luck to them!

And above the babble of reminiscence it seems to me that you can hear the machinery slipping back into gear – London will soon be at work again, and August, that idle month, will be forgotten in the reality of September.

With best wishes,

Kenneth Fields, Bolton, Lancashire, England

Leave a comment

Filed under Literature

“I, James Blunt”, by Kenneth Fields

HV Morton did much to support Britain and the Allies during the Second World War. He was one of only two reporters selected to cover the historic meeting between Winston Churchill and President Franklin D Roosevelt, he served in a home-guard unit in his home village of Binstead and he risked life and limb to report on the London Blitz. Another of his contributions was the writing of the novella, “I, James Blunt”, told in the form of a diary kept by the eponymous Mr Blunt, in a fictional (but at the time all too possible) Nazi-Occupied Britain. Here Kenneth Fields, one of the foremost Morton scholars I know, gives us a little background to the story.

§

“I, James Blunt”

a commentary, by Kenneth Fields

By 1941 the Ministry of Information, a government department that had been created at the outbreak of war, had grown to enormous size.

This propaganda organisation was concerned with all aspects of information management that was crucial to the national interest. It was given extensive powers, having control over the BBC, dissemination of information, press relations and news censorship. Its many separate divisions included a Home Intelligence Unit that prepared reports on the morale of the civilian population; a Films Division; and a Literary and Editorial Division that produced a range of booklets about the war. The Authors’ Section was housed in the University College buildings in Gower Street, Bloomsbury. For a period its head was novelist Graham Greene who worked alongside fellow writer Malcolm Muggeridge. With academic scepticism they both believed their work was of little importance and found the Ministry to be generally inefficient.

However, in spite of these misgivings Greene continued to take his duties seriously. One of his schemes involved approaching a number of well-known politicians and writers to ask if they would use their talents in writing a series of patriotic pamphlets and books. These famous names of the time included EM Delafield, Herbert Morrison, Vernon Bartlett, Dorothy Sayers, Howard Spring and HV Morton.

HVM accepted the challenge, returning to his home in Binsted, Hampshire to write what was destined to be his only published fictional work, “I, James Blunt”. In it he takes his reader forward to September 1944 to an England that has lost the war and is under Nazi rule. James Blunt is a retired tradesman who is living in the village of Foxton near Farnham (probably based on HVM’s own village of Binsted) and his diary reveals the terrible changes that the Occupation has brought. Dr. Goebbels is in charge of the Daily Express, all personal savings have been frozen and the Gestapo are ruthlessly enforcing the New Order in Britain. Buckingham Palace has a huge Swastika flag flying from its flagpole, Trafalgar Square has been renamed Hitler Square, Victoria Station is now Himmler Station, British workers are being transported to Germany and Scottish shipyards are building German warships to attack America. The fifty-six page paperback booklet ends with a message reminding the reader that the diary of James Blunt will remain fiction ‘as long as England condemns complacency.’

Graham Greene later recalled that Morton’s writing style was ‘a bit too popular to be good,’ and he needed to rewrite the booklet before publication, no doubt to make the aggressive propaganda message more apparent. But HVM, who had given his services free, so impressed Churchill with this publication that he was later invited to report on one of the most historic meetings of the war, which was later published as “Atlantic Meeting”.

Greene also pursued a similar theme with his story “The Lieutenant Died Last” that was published in Collier’s. This tale, that describes how a small band of German troops land in an English village prior to a full Nazi invasion, was later adapted by producer Alberto Cavalcanti for his classic film Went the Day Well that was released in 1942. And a more recent variation on the same theme was the popular film The Eagle has Landed.

Another important aspect in the battle to boost morale were the regular overseas short-wave broadcasts by the BBC. During these war years HVM gave regular talks on the African Service and wrote accompanying articles in the overseas BBC magazine, London Calling. In July 1942, to coincide with the publication of his booklet in the USA and Canada, he wrote about ‘James Blunt in Occupied Britain’. Here he explained the reason why he had written what was seen by many to be an unpleasant booklet full of gloom and despondency. He said that he firmly believed that the allies would win the war but it was important that the public were reminded of the real penalty of defeat.

(This article was originally circulated as HVM Collectors’ Note – No.6, on 22nd April, 2004)

1 Comment

Filed under HV Morton in the media, Literature, Wartime

Christmas Greetings!

In the Steps of the MasterThe dustjacket, by EA Cox, of HV Morton’s “In the Steps of the Master

For this year’s Christmas bulletin I have taken the liberty of slightly condensing a passage from chapter four of “In the Steps of the Master” in which Morton, with his usual lyrical flare, contemplates some of the distinctions between the traditional European representation of Christmas and what might actually have taken place in ancient Palestine. I am grateful to Stephen Twist who suggested the idea.

In Bethlehem, Morton encounters a door – so low it requires everyone who enteres to stoop – set in a massive wall. On the other side of the door is the Church of the Nativity, “the earliest Christian church in use to-day, and more or less as it left the hands of its builders”.

img543 - A Bethlehem Mother, from In the Steps of the Master snip“A Bethlehem Mother”, photograph by Mary Morton

From there he descends to the cave beneath the high altar which, as he puts it, “tradition claims as the spot where Christ was born”. The exact location is marked with a star, surrounded by a Latin inscription.

§

“As I stood in this dark, pungent cavern I forgot, I am afraid, all the clever and learned things written about the Nativity by German professors, and I seemed to hear English voices singing under a frosty sky:—

“O come, all ye faithful,
Joyful and triumphant,
O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem.

“How different is this dark little cave under a church from the manger and the stable of one’s imagination! As a child, I thought of it as a thatched English barn with wooden troughs for oats and hay, and a great pile of fodder on which the Wise Men knelt to adore “the new-born Child.” Down the long avenues of memory I seemed to hear the waits singing in the white hush of Christmas night:—

“While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around.

“There was a rhythmic chinking sound on the dark stairs. A Greek priest, with a black beard curled like that of an Assyrian king, came slowly into the cavern swinging a censer. The incense rolled out in clouds and hung about in the candle flames. He censed the altar and the Star. Then, in the most matter-of-fact way, he genuflected and went up into the light of the church.

“… The grotto was full of little children, silently standing two by two on the stairs. They came forward, knelt down and quickly kissed the stone near the star. Their little faces were very grave in the candle-light. Some of them closed their eyes tightly and whispered a prayer.

“No sooner had the last of them gone, than I heard the chink-chink of the censer; and into the gloom of the Grotto of the Nativity came again a Greek priest like an Assyrian king.”

§

A very happy Christmas and a good New Year.

Niall Taylor, Glastonbury, Somerset, England

4 Comments

Filed under Christmas, HV Morton, Literature, Quotations

The BBC Listener Magazine, 7th June 1945

This article was originally distributed as HVM Society Snippets – No.247, 8 December 2019

The BBC’s Listener magazine was published weekly from the 16th January 1929 and was described by the Guardian as one of the most distinguished publications in British journalism. It was intended to expand on the topics of various BBC broadcasts in a way that wasn’t possible in the programmes themselves or in the BBC’s listings magazine, the Radio Times. In its early days it was an eclectic publication which reflected the BBC’s cultural ideals but changes in society were mirrored by a change in editorial policy as ownership of the magazine was taken out of the BBC’s hands in the late 1980’s. As a result of this change and increasing competition the publication ceased production in 1991, after a total of 3,197 issues.

In the summer of 1945, shortly after Germany’s surrender at the end of the second world war in Europe, the 7th of June edition of The Listener was delivered to the MacKenzie household at number nine (price threepence). I have no idea who the MacKenzie family were or in which street number nine was but I am forever grateful to them as, nearly 65 years later, their extremely well preserved copy of volume 33, number 856, found its way to me in Glastonbury (price – a lot more than threepence), complete with their name and number written in pencil at the top right corner of the cover.

As if to illustrate how little some things have changed, the first article of this edition (on page 619) is entitled The Levant: its People and their Problems. Section one, The Place, is written by popular travel writer of the time and recognised authority on the region in question, HV Morton.

It is perhaps not one of HVM’s finest pieces of writing but nevertheless it is fascinating to see him simply as part of popular culture, someone who had done so much to bring the countries under discussion to the attention of readers in Britain and the US, commenting on the affairs of the day in the same way that others, including Stephen Fry and Ian Hislop, would do in later editions. Of course, Morton had recently also contributed to the allied war effort in the middle east and North Africa by publishing his condensed (“light enough to be carried in a haversack”) volume “Middle East” and later another similar paperback version, “Travels in Palestine and Syria” which was specifically intended for issue to the troops in that region.

The cover of Morton’s “Middle East” depicting a window overlooking Aleppo.

I have included the text below for your interest along with a few pictures and advertisments from the magazine which give a feel for the time it was written as well as adding to the enjoyment of looking back at history in this way!

§

The Levant: its People and their Problems
I—The Place
By H. V. MORTON
(from: The Listener vol. 33, no. 856, 7th June 1945)

SYRIA and Palestine are, geographically speaking, one. Syria is the north; Palestine is the south. They are much the same to look at; a thick central spine of barren mountains sloping away on the east to a vast desert and on the west to fertile plains washed by the waves of the Mediterranean Sea. Syria is much larger than Palestine (which is only a little narrow strip of a country), but the greater part of Syria is desert stretching eastwards for about two hundred miles to the Euphrates and Iraq.

When you leave Galilee and start to climb up the Syrian frontier you see ahead of you a grand mass of mountains topped by Mount Hermon wearing a white cap of snow. This mountain dominates the whole country and snow lies on it all the year round. At the frontier you see a little stream tumbling out of a cavern. This is the eastern source of the Jordan, which flows south through Palestine into the Dead Sea. And when you cross the frontier you are in Colonial France.

Now history. Syria has always been the trackway for migrations and for every conqueror who has ever broken loose. The Egyptian Pharaohs marched across it from the south; the Babylonians and the Assyrians from the east; Alexander the Great came across it from the north. So did the Romans, the Crusaders and the Turks. This means that Syria is scattered with the most wonderful collection of ruins you could find anywhere, from vast temples like Baalbek and complete ruined cities like Palmyra, to the superb castles which the Crusaders built on the tops of the mountains. And they built them as if to last for ever.

Palestine is the land of the Gospel; Syria is the land of the primitive Church. St. Paul was converted on the road to Damascus. He gained new vision in the Street called Straight, which is still to be seen in that city. The Church that was at Antioch was the first missionary Church (by the way Antioch is now part of Turkey but geographically and historically it is Syria). Another wonderful sight in Syria is about a dozen complete desolate Byzantium cities lying out in the sand. And there is the lovely ruined Church of Kalaat Semain built round the pillar on the top of which St. Simon Stylites spent his life. Syria was the home of those strange early ascetics—the Pillar Saints.

Now the towns: what are they like—Beirut is the great port. It is a large white city on a fine bay, with the Lebanon rising at the back. Damascus: a city of minarets and domes in the middle of a large flat orchard, sometimes ablaze with apricot blossom. Commerce and bargaining are in the very air. You have only to admire a carpet in the bazaar to find it in your bedroom on approval when you get back to the hotel. Aleppo: a lovely Arab city with a bright little chromium-plated French town built round it. But go into the dark covered bazaars of Aleppo and you slip into the Arabian Nights. In the plain of Aleppo are clusters of strange Arab villages. Each house is a mud cone painted white. The villages look like clusters of fifty or a hundred eggs in an egg-rack—if you can imagine such a sight. When a polite Arab invites you inside to drink a cup of coffee you discover that these mud houses are as clean as a Dutch dresser. Homs and Hama are two purely Arab towns on the railway. They are always full of camels and donkeys and street markets. They smell of the Eastern Desert. Then there is Tripoli, a big port north of Beirut and Lattaqieh (where the tobacco comes from) and Tyre and Sidon.

One leaves Syria with an impression of great brown mountains, vast sandy deserts, sunny orange-groves near the sea, old gentlemen in Turkish fezes smoking hookahs under palm trees, silent, dead cities, ruined temples built of the most lovely honey-coloured stone, minarets, domes, and busy cities full of life and colour.

With best wishes,

Niall Taylor

2 Comments

Filed under HV Morton in the media, Magazine Articles, Quotations, Travel